Five days’ driving brought us to the terrific road between Lytton and Yale, and as we sat in the wagon, within a few inches of the unguarded edge of the precipice of 700 or 800 feet, running up and down the steeps, and along the narrow portions, winding round the face of the bluffs, we could not help an uneasy consciousness that a very trifling accident might eject us from our lofty position into the depths below. And what made matters look worse was, that our carriage was gradually coming to pieces. First one spring broke, and then another, and we bumped about on the axles. Next the splinter-bar gave way, and had to be tied up with a piece of rope. All these would have been trifling accidents had the road been of a different character, but when, to crown all, the pole snapped in its socket, and the wagon ran into the horses, we had good cause to be thankful that this had happened in the middle of a flat, just after crossing the suspension bridge. Had it occurred a few minutes sooner, we should doubtless have been precipitated headlong into the Roaring Cañons. The pole was past mending, so the driver took the horses out and led them back to a house about half a mile distant, the rest of us remaining behind to guard the treasure by the light of a large bonfire, for it was already quite dark. In about an hour the driver re-appeared, accompanied by a friend, bringing a large covered wagon, drawn by two fine Californian horses. The fresh horses were put in as leaders, and we soon started with our four-in-hand, rattling along at a headlong gallop, for we had now two drivers, one who managed the reins, while the other vigorously plied the whip. The express-man had brought a bottle of whisky back with him, and he and his friend devoted themselves assiduously to it in the calmer intervals of their joint occupation. After a time it was discovered that the reins of the leaders were not crossed, and consequently useless for guiding purposes; but the two Californians led the way admirably, sweeping round every curve with great precision. Much of the road was as dangerous as any we had passed before, but the men shouted and whipped up, the horses galloped furiously, the wagon whisked round the precipitous bluffs, and tore down the steep descents in mad career. We reached Yale before midnight, having been little more than an hour doing the last fifteen miles of this fearful road. Leaving this picturesque little town for the second and last time the following morning, we took steamer down the Fraser once more, and landed in Victoria again on the 25th of November. CHAPTER XX.